don't understand suffering.
why wasn't everything created and developed in such a way that suffering simply doesn't exist?
love letter 01.05
I was thinking about the boundary of your love. I was trying to perceive in my mind the limit where your love for me would vanish. So that I can stop myself before I accidentally cross back into that strange realm of not being loved by you. I don't even remember how being there felt like.
Maybe you will stop loving after I destroy your new shirt again by overheating it in the dryer for the 100th time. If that's the limit, I will stop doing laundry after destroying your 99th shirt. I will take over washing dishes and vacuuming the floor and beg you to be in charge of the laundry.
Maybe you will no longer love me if I sell your computer to someone for no reason without telling you or if I give make you eat rice with boiled weird meat for more than 3 weeks.
I need to know the boundary so that I won't cross it. But I will be close. I will keep moving closer to the boundary then stop myself right before it and run back to a safe place. You will still love me. And I will boast to myself and the indifferent world how I am such a loved thing.
__________
I was also thinking about that little restaurant in Vilnius we stopped for two soups of the day, two coffees and two lemon kompot after walking for hours away from the city centre. We were both very pleased to come across a cute random little food place in the unfamiliar place, even if the food wasn't that exciting. I still remember that the lemon thing was too bitter.
Isn't a happy relationship made up of little shared joys? Everything else falls apart. Material things or made up values. Most of the time when I say something - anything, a small but non-dismissible part in me feel like I'm just telling a lie, to the other person or to myself. Let's take all sayings at face value. Let's not completely trust anyone, even each other, especially each other. I'm morally corrupt. I'm only nice to you so that you are nice to me back. Let's not make plans.
But let's stick to each other to the days of old age. Having you in my life is my strategy to survive.
Little shared joys. Unexciting lemon kompot. Evil Lithuanian bastards who didn't welcome us. Little shared anti-joys.
Every shared moment, even if passing, is of timeless and immeasurable value.
I say that out of a state of despair, thinking about the inevitable collapse of most stuffs.
But the only infinite thing about my existence is the echoes of little shared joys and anti-joys. These echoes will outlive our days, become a stable part of the universe that physics doesn't know about.
Maybe you will stop loving after I destroy your new shirt again by overheating it in the dryer for the 100th time. If that's the limit, I will stop doing laundry after destroying your 99th shirt. I will take over washing dishes and vacuuming the floor and beg you to be in charge of the laundry.
Maybe you will no longer love me if I sell your computer to someone for no reason without telling you or if I give make you eat rice with boiled weird meat for more than 3 weeks.
I need to know the boundary so that I won't cross it. But I will be close. I will keep moving closer to the boundary then stop myself right before it and run back to a safe place. You will still love me. And I will boast to myself and the indifferent world how I am such a loved thing.
__________
I was also thinking about that little restaurant in Vilnius we stopped for two soups of the day, two coffees and two lemon kompot after walking for hours away from the city centre. We were both very pleased to come across a cute random little food place in the unfamiliar place, even if the food wasn't that exciting. I still remember that the lemon thing was too bitter.
Isn't a happy relationship made up of little shared joys? Everything else falls apart. Material things or made up values. Most of the time when I say something - anything, a small but non-dismissible part in me feel like I'm just telling a lie, to the other person or to myself. Let's take all sayings at face value. Let's not completely trust anyone, even each other, especially each other. I'm morally corrupt. I'm only nice to you so that you are nice to me back. Let's not make plans.
But let's stick to each other to the days of old age. Having you in my life is my strategy to survive.
Little shared joys. Unexciting lemon kompot. Evil Lithuanian bastards who didn't welcome us. Little shared anti-joys.
Every shared moment, even if passing, is of timeless and immeasurable value.
I say that out of a state of despair, thinking about the inevitable collapse of most stuffs.
But the only infinite thing about my existence is the echoes of little shared joys and anti-joys. These echoes will outlive our days, become a stable part of the universe that physics doesn't know about.
I feel humble as a mediocre creature. I was angry but soon became indifferent about my lack of power. But having you within sight in the same room with me rebuilds and rebuilds in my soul the splendid castle that continues to fall apart and fall apart. The splendid, beautiful castle falls apart and gets rebuilt and falls apart and gets rebuilt.
__________
A poem-ish to you.
You can chain me up
in the name of love.
I allow you to.
Questions on happiness
- I had countless inconsistent answers to.
Since we met,
the only answer is you.
These days,
I feel bad rather than celebrate when I sleep too much.
I eat more chicken breasts than chicken wings.
I see all these influences from you in me.
Hence, therefore, so: this must be love.
Vân
06.03.2018 lúc rất sớm
p.s: I'm so sweet.
in the name of love.
I allow you to.
Questions on happiness
- I had countless inconsistent answers to.
Since we met,
the only answer is you.
These days,
I feel bad rather than celebrate when I sleep too much.
I eat more chicken breasts than chicken wings.
I see all these influences from you in me.
Hence, therefore, so: this must be love.
Vân
06.03.2018 lúc rất sớm
p.s: I'm so sweet.
Tiredness
I found the most strikingly honest pieces of writings in books, and not in any other forms of printing. I guess one has more freedom and power as the author of a book than of an article, printed or online. 'Shut up. You don't get to talk - to voice your opinions - to say anything against me right now.' The moment you open a book and start to read it, you should be a mute and humble passenger in an unfamiliar world. Many times, too unfamiliar, what have you got to say?
This should be a reminder for myself to read books more. I don't read books often.
My days seem to be a monotonous string of inactivity, physical and mental. I seem to forget how to use my power of choice to bring out even a smallest change. I just picked to eat a too-sour clementine from the clementine box I bought this noon. In my ideal world, I only bought the right things. I ate only the things that contribute positively to my well-being and taste wonderful at the same time.
I remember random moments in my life. Moments when I'm alone, thinking. I remember some of them more dearly than most big meaningful moments. I remember once walking along a small road behind my A-level school, thinking that the only solution for me is to learn to do every single thing from scratch. How to walk. How to breath. How to open and close my eyes. How to turn around on a rare occasion when I heard vaguely my name being called. Occasionally I feel a strong sense that everything I do is utterly wrong. But I don't think much about the negative things someone may have mentioned about me. A poor spatial sense. I hit people too often when I walk. My choice of jeans makes my legs look fat. My skin is too dry. Not those kinds of things. I think simply that if I walked in the right way and breathed correctly, I would be a perfect thing. But I don't - I'm not. How depressing.
If you know me enough, you must have heard me mentioning these things. Honesty. Monotony. A cup of tea. No cup of tea. I just finished it. This year I bought such a huge box of tea I will never finish it. How depressing.
Today as I was rambling to my boyfriend on the bus, I realised I talk about the same things again and again. I told him that I should find new stuffs to talk about. He suggested we talk about that manhole door we saw. I thought it was a very interesting thing to talk about. We started to talk about it gleefully. But soon after that we reached the market - where I bought the clementines. The conversation about manhole doors was interrupted. I forgot about it. I spent the rest of my day talking about my old stuffs again and eating clementines that are too sour.
I was lying. We also had a minor fight. We reconciled. I said it's so obvious that I'm always right in this relationship - why you even have to wonder otherwise. I know he wonders that sometimes, which is such a wrong thing to do. We had sex. The whole thing took three hours and a bit more. I will use that as an excuse why I didn't get to read that book I borrowed from the library earlier.
I have to make a confession. Sometimes I get slightly aggravated when my boyfriend is sleepy. I feel like it's his way to dominate me gradually - forcing his sleepiness on my attention - manipulating me to change my ways of things because of his sleepiness. What's his real plan under all these cuteness and loveliness? I suspect everything. But sometimes he goes to sleep because of a coming migraines. Headaches and stuffs. Such good reason. How can I complain?
So I'll go to sleep with him.
This should be a reminder for myself to read books more. I don't read books often.
My days seem to be a monotonous string of inactivity, physical and mental. I seem to forget how to use my power of choice to bring out even a smallest change. I just picked to eat a too-sour clementine from the clementine box I bought this noon. In my ideal world, I only bought the right things. I ate only the things that contribute positively to my well-being and taste wonderful at the same time.
I remember random moments in my life. Moments when I'm alone, thinking. I remember some of them more dearly than most big meaningful moments. I remember once walking along a small road behind my A-level school, thinking that the only solution for me is to learn to do every single thing from scratch. How to walk. How to breath. How to open and close my eyes. How to turn around on a rare occasion when I heard vaguely my name being called. Occasionally I feel a strong sense that everything I do is utterly wrong. But I don't think much about the negative things someone may have mentioned about me. A poor spatial sense. I hit people too often when I walk. My choice of jeans makes my legs look fat. My skin is too dry. Not those kinds of things. I think simply that if I walked in the right way and breathed correctly, I would be a perfect thing. But I don't - I'm not. How depressing.
If you know me enough, you must have heard me mentioning these things. Honesty. Monotony. A cup of tea. No cup of tea. I just finished it. This year I bought such a huge box of tea I will never finish it. How depressing.
Today as I was rambling to my boyfriend on the bus, I realised I talk about the same things again and again. I told him that I should find new stuffs to talk about. He suggested we talk about that manhole door we saw. I thought it was a very interesting thing to talk about. We started to talk about it gleefully. But soon after that we reached the market - where I bought the clementines. The conversation about manhole doors was interrupted. I forgot about it. I spent the rest of my day talking about my old stuffs again and eating clementines that are too sour.
I was lying. We also had a minor fight. We reconciled. I said it's so obvious that I'm always right in this relationship - why you even have to wonder otherwise. I know he wonders that sometimes, which is such a wrong thing to do. We had sex. The whole thing took three hours and a bit more. I will use that as an excuse why I didn't get to read that book I borrowed from the library earlier.
I have to make a confession. Sometimes I get slightly aggravated when my boyfriend is sleepy. I feel like it's his way to dominate me gradually - forcing his sleepiness on my attention - manipulating me to change my ways of things because of his sleepiness. What's his real plan under all these cuteness and loveliness? I suspect everything. But sometimes he goes to sleep because of a coming migraines. Headaches and stuffs. Such good reason. How can I complain?
So I'll go to sleep with him.
An early morning
I thought I would sleep soon when you were calling me from the bed to come sleep with you 'pleeeease'. You hugged me so tight for a few seconds, telling me you had nightmares. I kind of liked the smell from your sleepy mouth. I didn't want to go away from bed any more. 'I will sleep', I thought, 'I'm so calm and peaceful in your arms and legs.'
But I didn't sleep. My mind kept wandering. The streams of thoughts never stopped.
*
I will write down some thoughts that I want to keep in my memory for a while. I actually think so rarely these days that thoughts become precious. Damn. I want to retain those thoughts because I believe they represent the part in me with a positive and healthy outlook on life and work as an alternative to the Vân who says 'I want to die!' with a so sad face just because I need to do something productive.
I'm in a middle of writing a script for my video essay. I wrote, deleted, rewrote the same paragraph many times. I will be doing the same thing again and again.
At some point I questioned myself if I was engaged enough with the topic. I read about it and thought about it. But maybe I just had a basic interest in it, even when I picked the topic myself. How am I to create something that can be engaging when I'm myself not much, much more engaged in it than an average person?
It's rare for me to feel strongly about something. I only acknowledged this in a recent year. But it has been the case forever. I recall that in my childhood and teenage years, there were too many times when my classmates experience some strong collective emotions, like on the last day of school, when there's a fight, about some change in the school. And I just didn't feel much. I think that's why I have always found it quite difficult to identify with words such as 'passion', 'excitement' or even 'love' (until you, boyfriend, don't worry.)
That's the problem. I didn't feel enough about the topic. It shines through the whole process.
Yes, I was right to accuse myself of approaching the script from wrong angles. I was also right to be annoyed at my boring, wordy writing style. I was right about everything else that's wrong about the thing at the moment.
But something may make things better next time I attempt to continue, I need to make myself feel something a bit strongly. Just anything, not necessarily the topic itself. Because feelings are not thoughts that need to have specific contents. They are more flexible and and removed from the realm of consciousness. Hence they are more powerful in many ways. They affect the owner of the feelings and related people in ways no one really has control over.
Conclusion, needs to feel more when writing script.
_
Now, will go to sleep with love. Miss you so much my love xxxx
But I didn't sleep. My mind kept wandering. The streams of thoughts never stopped.
*
I will write down some thoughts that I want to keep in my memory for a while. I actually think so rarely these days that thoughts become precious. Damn. I want to retain those thoughts because I believe they represent the part in me with a positive and healthy outlook on life and work as an alternative to the Vân who says 'I want to die!' with a so sad face just because I need to do something productive.
I'm in a middle of writing a script for my video essay. I wrote, deleted, rewrote the same paragraph many times. I will be doing the same thing again and again.
At some point I questioned myself if I was engaged enough with the topic. I read about it and thought about it. But maybe I just had a basic interest in it, even when I picked the topic myself. How am I to create something that can be engaging when I'm myself not much, much more engaged in it than an average person?
It's rare for me to feel strongly about something. I only acknowledged this in a recent year. But it has been the case forever. I recall that in my childhood and teenage years, there were too many times when my classmates experience some strong collective emotions, like on the last day of school, when there's a fight, about some change in the school. And I just didn't feel much. I think that's why I have always found it quite difficult to identify with words such as 'passion', 'excitement' or even 'love' (until you, boyfriend, don't worry.)
That's the problem. I didn't feel enough about the topic. It shines through the whole process.
Yes, I was right to accuse myself of approaching the script from wrong angles. I was also right to be annoyed at my boring, wordy writing style. I was right about everything else that's wrong about the thing at the moment.
But something may make things better next time I attempt to continue, I need to make myself feel something a bit strongly. Just anything, not necessarily the topic itself. Because feelings are not thoughts that need to have specific contents. They are more flexible and and removed from the realm of consciousness. Hence they are more powerful in many ways. They affect the owner of the feelings and related people in ways no one really has control over.
Conclusion, needs to feel more when writing script.
_
Now, will go to sleep with love. Miss you so much my love xxxx
"I've got a little black book with my poems in..."
When I first went to London, I was totally amazed by the range of people there. I come from a relatively small city where never being stuck in a traffic jam is part of one's identity. Hence the huge escalators in the underground stations fully packed with people were already a spectacular scene for me. Those people went through their underground journeys so effortlessly and casually as if finding yourself in a sea of people as irrelevant to your life as it gets but equally subjecting themselves to the necessary but tiring long travelling time is the most normal thing ever. I was also pleasantly overwhelmed by the great diversity of human faces that I got to observe. Extraordinary ethnic diversity inside a single tube carriage. Yes, I like enormously this superficial feature of a human being: not even the cultural background behind one's skin colour, simply whatever it is about one's appearance that expose the race she belongs to. I even started to exoticise myself after moving to the UK: enjoying how beautifully Asian I look in the mirror. I was sitting in a London tube and admiring people's faces, each of which became more and more gorgeous as I keep looking at it. I didn't enjoy them just as instances of a race. I came to truly believe that if I look at a face long enough, any random human face, needless of any interaction, I will grow to truly love, even be obsessed with that face.
Then and there, in the London tube, I had a desire to preserve and communicate my feelings of being overwhelmed and exited about the diversity of faces. I wanted to put faces in a museum. Statues? Will statues of faces be human enough to convey what I want to? I have a habit that whenever I see a human statue, I would immediately turn my head in the direction of the statue's look and then for a heartbeat feel genuinely confused as there is nothing to keep looking at. Right, hyper-realistic sculptures or models of ethically diverse human faces would do the work. Seemingly ordinary black, white, Asian, male and female,.. faces until you look at them enough to experience what I did in that tube.
I also used to want to have a museum for all of the moments in my life that I have forgotten - especially the boring, insignificant everyday things: brushing my teeth before bed on 23/05/2012, another lunch alone in a dining room in my old school,.. I felt like each of them deserve preservation and recognition, not just being sadly crammed in my unconscious mind. It would be a metaphysical museum that needs not be visited by anyone, even me. God forbid, if I am to experience these moments in the museum from a first-person point of view, they will turn into memories rather than forgotten moments. How likely is it that seeing vivid images of one's past, even if they are just unimportant activities, will not bring them out of her unconscious, thus ruining the purpose of the museum?
Maybe I should do Museum Studies for my Masters. If I don't get funding for my ideas, I will steal money from my hopefully rich husband and set up some museums or exhibitions that are weird but nothing remarkable. I will be a bitter person with a depressing career life, but secretly enjoying my unrecognised works. Sounds like a plan.
*the title is from a song I'm listening to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQpTtYj52ts.
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